!EDITED!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is certainly not mine. This is, I quote, "Simply a work of fiction by a fan A.K.A FanFiction" and therefore, it has been written for my amusement and entertainment and that of my readers, with no other purpose. The Harry Potter saga, its characters, the events narrated therein and the world created in it are property of J.K. Rowling and the rights to them belong to her, Warner Brother, and many editorial houses that I won't bother to name. The story and events narrated in here, the characters original to this story and anything that you don't recognise is fruit of my imagination and therefore they ARE my property. Respect the ©.
A/N: This story, as its summary warned, includes slash. That means homosexual relationships, in this case, mainly between men. Please, all of you who do not like his kind of stories refrain from commenting on this as I explicitly warned you and thus you know what you're going to read. I will not change my story for the readers, especially not on such a frivolous aspect as the coupling of the characters, which is a detail developed for my enjoyment. Criticism on this aspect has no literary value so I will not waste my time on it.
On the other hand, constructive criticism is encouraged. Please comment on my grammar, my semantics, my narrative and even my spelling for English is my second language. Any reasonable ideas for the storyline will be carefully analyzed and, if fitting, added with the proper credits.
Finally, on a note similar to my first comment, this is an AU through and through. That means things do not happen as in the books, Harry will grow up differently, with a different personality, in a different environment, and therefore will be a different person; even if some of his traits remain the same (genetics are powerful after all). Again, I ask you not to complain on this subject for this is how I've configured my story –I will not change it no matter how much you insist. On my note about constructive criticism, if you feel that, within the parameter I've set for my storyline, some events become too farfetched and illogical, please comment.
I am very sorry to have to say so, but if you don't like AU or Slash, or any other characteristic inherent to the nature of my story, just don't read.
!I NEED A BETA!
In the Heart of the Family
Summary: HP. AU Pre-Hogwarts. Book-verse. M-rated. SLASH. Harry wasn't raised by the Dursleys, he never knew them. He was raised by a man who claims to be his many-times-great-grandfather, who is his many-time-great-grandfather, who is a vampire, and who turns him into a vampire as his fourteenth birthday present. Ultimately CDHP SBmale!OC
Chapter 01: A Broken Family
He felt his heart stop, even if it had barely beaten for over twenty centuries. His breath caught in his throat and his chest tightened to the point that, had he had any real need for air, he would have suffocated in a matter of minutes. His eyes widened so much that a distant part of his mind was surprised they didn't dislodge and abandoned their sockets, and his already marble-white skin paled to a sickly ashen hue that closely resembled that of the dead.
He stood in a deserted, dark road in the dead of night, and his only source of light was the reason of his shocked state. Standing in front of him, alight by furious flames, were the ruins of what not two hours ago had been a beautiful, fairytale-like cottage. He could remember with precise detail its beautiful wooden panels painted soft cream, the ivy climbing up the slim posts that held the roof over the porch. He could still see in his mind the delicate rose-vines hanging off the balcony of the master bedroom, the French doors that lead from the saloon to the backyard. His nose could still feel the sweet and soft sent of flowers and freshly fallen rain that somehow so represented the inhabitants of the house. And he could vividly recall the baby-blue painted nursery, with its huge rosewood corral and crib, the littered plushies and toys, and the soft smell of the child; His sweet child, with his pale rosy cheeks and his messy mop of black hair, his vibrant green eyes, his easy bubbling laughter and his contagious smile.
His world seemed to crumble around him together with the house. A knot formed in his throat, and the one in his chest tightened so much that, had he tried to breathe he would have been unable to do so. His mind was blank in the forefront, unable to formulate any coherent conscious thought, but at the same time it was raging with memories and sensations, as if he was living both the present and the past at once. Just as his mind was being overloaded by emotions, inches away from shutting down, one unique sign registered in his conscious mind. His senses, that had only perceived death from within the house, now screamed at him desperately, demanded that he didn't lose himself because in the cottage there was someone alive. It was feeble and weak, but it was there.
His body reacted long before his mind, and with speed impossible to be matched by any human he ran towards the house and into it. The flames rose around him, but he felt no warmth; they licked his body, but he expertly ignored the pain. He followed the feeling of the fading spark of life through the entrance hall, past the burning corpse of a black hair man, up the stairs and through the corridor into the farthest room to the right. Paying no mind to any potential dangers or his aching, burned body, he pushed the blazing door open with his bared hands.
The door fell into the room with a deafening crush and he stumbled in, all his grace forgotten as he rushed to the fallen rosewood crib near the window of the burning room. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered a set of elegant black robes being eaten by the flames and, lying just in front of the crib, the dead body of a beautiful red haired woman. They were soon forgotten as his eyes focused on his objective. There, under the slowly burning remains of the crib, hiding under an angle of the fallen cage-like bed and covered by a charred mattress, was that small but O so precious life that he was trying to save.
For one agonizingly long second he stood there and stared, his mind once again blank. Then, a flicker in the unstable life sprang him into action. With swift but calculated movements he cleared the space around the crib, and then carefully pulled the burning rosewood off the fallen mattress. Finally, slowly, filled with trepidation, he lifted the beddings. There he found, clutching a pastel green woollen blanket and curled up into a small ball in a defensive manner, that child he remembered so well, still the same but so horrifyingly different from the one in his memories. His delicate rosy pale skin was now a terrifying marble white, too similar to his own for his comfort. His eyes were shut tight, and hitched breaths racked his small frame. Blood flowed freely down his face from some cut on his forehead and matted on his hair and clothes. He had last seen the boy when he was four months old, and now he was fifteen and hanging to his life by a threat, each breath and each heartbeat pushing a bit more of life out of his diminutive body.
Slowly, carefully, he reached out for the child, suddenly aware of all the pain and strain his body was under. Pushing the abrasive pain of the burns, the sharp stabs of the cuts, and the dull ache of his smoke-filled chest to the back of his mind, he laid one burnt bleeding hand on the child's shoulder. He then allowed just one spark of his magic to flow over the infant and back to him, willing it to feel the boy's condition. Once assured that moving the baby wouldn't kill him, he wrapped him in his blanket and picked him up. With upmost tenderness he laid the child's head on the crook of his elbow and tucked him against his chest, his suddenly weak arms snaking with difficulty around the shaking frame of the infant. Nearly without a thought he ripped off a piece of his shirt and pressed the fabric against the wound on the child's forehead, almost unconsciously caressing and tending to it with his shaking hands. He took a few seconds to brace himself and make sure that his limbs wouldn't fail him before he pushed himself to his feet and walked out of the room as quickly as he dared risk and as fast as his burnt and aching body, the wounded child and the falling house allowed him.
The walk out was much slower than his mad sprint in. He descended the frail stairs testing every step before standing on it. The wooden structure screeched and the flames roared around him. With every step he took his keen senses, so high on adrenaline and paranoia, registered every tremor of the cottage as if it was its last before it crumpled on itself and buried him and the baby under its ruins. After five tortuous minutes that stretched into eternity he arrived to the door-less entrance threshold and left the house, his hands still tending to the wounded child. Just as he walked off the front lawn and past the fence, the deep rumbling of a motor in the distance brought his attention back to his surroundings. The sound startled him, stopped him in his track. He quickly regained control of his body and moved swiftly and silently away from the house and the road and into the forest. There he leaned against a tree near the edge, listening intently as the humming became a full out roar as the vehicle came closer and closer. When he thought it couldn't get louder the screech of tires on the pavement announced the vehicles abrupt stop before the motor's roar lowered abruptly to a humming lull. He risked diverting his attention back to the baby for just a second to find him still unconscious in his arms, and then quickly focused back on his surroundings and any potential danger.
It wasn't long before the hum of the motor was suppressed by the senseless and outraged screams of a man. It was a rich baritone torn by anguish and pain too deep to be physical. As the tirade went on, the angry shouts intermingled with anguished cries and were hitched by sorrowful sobs until the man's energy was apparently depleted. The unknown man crumbled boneless onto the ground and his voice faded into breathless sobs that he could barely hear, buried as they were by the groans of the crumbling wooden house, the crackling of the fire and the still humming motor. The pause in the man's fury stretched for long minutes until one final inarticulate scream of pain ripped out of his throat, accompanied by the loud and dull clank of wood hitting metal. The scream faded and echoed over the empty lane before the oppressive and loud silence of the death-filled night and the burning fire pushed its dominance imperatively over the wreck, every now and then interrupted by an unintelligible string of curses that were swallowed by the night.
As the grief, the sorrow and the oppressive feeling of death seemed to grow heavier and thicken, the very air weighing down on his shoulders like a solid burden, the more cynical part of his mind, in an hysteric attempt to throw away the pain, thought 'the man needs anger management lessons'. He quickly pushed this train of thoughts out of his mind and forced himself to focus on the more pressing matters. He had a bleeding, miraculously not burnt, maybe dying child in his arms. Only a dirty piece of burned fabric was there to prevent that the infant bled to death, and still there was the possibility that the carbon monoxide was running its course in the child's blood and would kill him, wound or no wound. Also, he had his own wounds and burns to consider. They were certainly draining his energy as his magic worked overtime trying to repair the extensive damage. And finally, there was an unknown man that could be, in the best of cases, willing to help him or, in the worst case scenario, he could want the child for himself and leave him no option but to kill him. For there was no way he would let anyone else have his grandchild. Weighing his options, he decided to risk a glance at the house, trying to identify the newcomer.
There, on his knees next to a huge motorbike, fists on the ground and glaring intently at the burning cottage, was a man he new quite well. He was pale with midnight-black hair and startling sky-blue eyes, of sharp but smooth features, thin lips, strong and lithe built, with not overly broad shoulders. He was probably just an inch under to six feet tall and, if his memory served him well, he was turning twenty three in a just over a month.
He turned away quickly, hiding his face from the light of the fire. He stared at the darkness in front of him, going over his options and their possible consequences. Soon he made up his mind and stepped out of the shadows to become visible as he called the man's name.
"Sirius!" he shouted while his eyes swept through his surroundings, making sure that there was no one else but the three of them there.
The black haired young adult snapped into action faster than any human he had ever seen. He had his wand out and pointing directly at him in the blink of an eye while his eyes scanned his surroundings meticulously. The black haired man's mind worked overdrive, dissecting the situation and calculating his position and his chances of victory in a possible confrontation. The blue orbs seemed to drink in every detail with swift efficiency, expertly analyzing the terrain and his figure, which probably appeared to be in a deplorable state to those eyes. It wasn't long before the pale eyes came to rest on the bundle in his arms and the wand pointed at him lowered ever so slightly. Soon Sirius' blue eyes returned to his own and held them for long seconds, gauging him. Before any judgement could be mad, they were forced into action as set of footsteps, heavier than that of the stockiest human, approached the house. Making as little noise as possible he moved swiftly back into the shadows of the trees, followed closely by the light and sharp steps of the young auror. They continued walking in silence until the where sure that whatever noise they made wouldn't be heard by anyone near the cottage.
The silence that followed after their rushed escape from the unknown third party was deafening, made all the more oppressive by the lack of the crackling fire that had accompanied their encounter. It ringed in their ears for long tense moments until the ragged, laboured breaths of the toddler in the arms of the older of the two adults broke through their fogged minds that where still coming to terms with the fact that two of their most beloved friends had been ripped away from them by an atrocious death. Finally, Sirius walked around him so that they were facing each other. In that moment Sirius allowed himself to really look at the man for the first time.
He was of average height, standing just over five feet nine. His skin, he knew, was of a natural ivory white tone, but now it had an ashen, dead hue, although it still preserved its porcelain doll-like smoothness. His eyes were naturally a radiant crimson red and so was his hair that, although naturally messy, it now looked completely dishevelled, just like the man himself. His fine linen shirt was torn and matted with blood, a scratch marred his perfect face, and his hand and exposed forearms showed burns that were healing at an inhuman rate as he stared. His features were that of a man not much older than himself, by no means past his mid twenties, but his eyes showed a wisdom and knowledge that could only be achieved after many lifetimes. He seemed resigned as he waited for his resolution. It wasn't until the bundle in the redhead's arms squirmed slightly and brought a smile upon the marble white face that recognition dawned on his face.
"Stephanos?" he asked, searching for confirmation in the red orbs that rose faster than lighting to trap his own with their penetrating gaze. He took a tentative step closer, pocketing his wand and then raising his empty hands just enough so the other man could see them.
The unnaturally beautiful face of the redhead relaxed after a moment, and allowed a sad smile to morph his features. Something about that smile ripped at Sirius heart; a sense of finality, as if its appearance forced everything that had happened to sink in and become true even in his mind. It forced him to accept it all and made him incapable of hiding in denial. A shudder travelled up his spine and he averted his gaze, unable to hold those sorrowful eyes any longer.
"I came to see my granddaughter and I found her house burning, her and her husband's bodies lying dead in their own home and my grandson wounded and close to death, suffocating in the fire. What happened, Sirius?" His tone was calm, quite and it held no accusation, but it was firm and it demanded an answer.
"I... I'm sorry Vincent, I..."
"Don't excuse yourself, Sirius, just tell me what happened, please" interrupted the redhead, a heavy sigh wracking his frame, his eyes closed in resigned mourning.
The weight of the request was more than what Sirius could take. He stumbled back a couple of steps before sagging and falling back into the much needed support of a robust oak. Beams of moonlight slipped through the thick foliage and illuminated both pale faces as the silence and the minutes dilated into one long eternity. The hitched breathing of the child in the redhead's arms and the heavy breaths of the pale eyed man cut sharply into the silence as he tried to gather himself enough to answer.
"They went into hiding, because of the prophesy..."
"I know..."
"They went under the Fidelius not two weeks ago..."
"Where you their secret keeper?" asked Vincent, his voice once again sharp and demanding but, just like before, with no reproach.
"NO!" Sirius' eyes seemed to come back to life, vehemently claiming innocence. "You know I would never betray James and Lily," he hissed fiercely. "Not James, he was my brother, my only real family after..."
"I know, Sirius," interrupted the redhead soothingly. "I know you were loyal to them, I just needed to make sure."
"I- I understand." He took a deep calming breath before continuing. "Peter was their secret Keeper..."
"Peter Pettigrew?"
"Yes. He... he betrayed them." His voice broke with those words that made everything real once again, and brought all the horrors of the last hours crushing down on him.
"Vincent..."
"Yes?" asked the redhead, tilting his head to one side trying to catch Sirius gaze. Something in his voice worried him; the hollow despair in it had all the warning bells ringing madly mad in his mind and they screamed danger, not for him, but for the young man standing before him.
"Vincent, he sold them to Voldemort! I trusted him! We trusted him! And he sold them out." Sirius was rambling, his eyes wide and unfocused.
"Sirius, calm down..."
"That son of a bitch! He was our brother, we loved him and he stabbed us in our backs. How could he! What ever happened that made him betray us like that? We would've all died for him. How dare he! I'll hunt him down! I'll track him, and find him, and make him pay..."
"Sirius, listen to me..."
"... We knew there was a traitor, a spy within The Order. And I thought it was Remus. O god, I thought it was Remus. I was being just as prejudiced as those bloody Death Eaters. I didn't trust him because he was a werewolf, but I trusted that bastard... And he gave them up to Voldemort..."
"Sirius, please..."
"I told James to switch secret keeps so that everyone would think it was me but it actually wasn't -a diversion... but instead I gave them up to the enemy in silver platter... I... I killed them Vincent..."
"Sirius-!" his words fell on deaf ears for Sirius was lost in guilt and despair. It took several sharp and loud calls, a healthy dose of threats and a warning flare of his magic to bring the man back to reality. By the time Sirius' eyes had regained their focus and his mind had reintegrated itself to reality they were both drained, emotionally, magically and mentally.
"Vincent, I have to go. Please take care of Harry, I-"
"Shut up!" The low hiss carried over the short distance between then like a whip, striking Sirius into a startled and submissive silence. "Listen to yourself Black! Hell-bent on revenge and trying to justify some ridiculous desperate kamikaze attempt to hunt down the traitor in the name of empty justice when it will only lead to your death. What would you gain, Black? Some sick satisfaction?" His voice dripped sarcasm and disgust as he continued to rebuke the young man. "I don't know if you've realised it, but, just like you said, anyone would assume that you where my granddaughter's family's secret keeper and that means you are a wanted man, Black. You go out there, and it's a one-way ticket to Azkaban. You probably won't even get a trial. Why bother when it's just so obvious that the Potters would choose you as their secret keeper," he carried on sardonically. He paused to catch his breath and glared at the pale eyed man who was now sitting on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, shaking slightly in a combination of fear, disgust, grief, fury, and so many other emotions that seemed to battle for a place in his expression, distorting his face. "You forget you place, Black. You are my grandchild's godfather. You are this child's godfather, and it's your responsibility to see to his wellbeing above everything else, your sick desires included."
"But Pettigrew...!"
"Can rot in hell for all I care! Are you trying to insinuate that killing him for your petty revenge is more important than Harry's wellbeing?"
"THIS IS NOT PETTY REVENGE! IT'S JAMES AND LILY WE'RE TAKING ABOUT!" Sirius was once again on his feet, glaring defiantly at Vincent
"AND THIS IS THEIR SON WE'RE TALKING ABOUT!" He took a step forward threateningly, making the other man step back until his back was pressed against the tree trunk once again, his eyes wide in fear. Emotions and magic seemed to materialize, making the air denser and heavier and causing sparks and shimmers of light to sprout around the two men. It was a contest of wills, power and testosterone that could have easily escalated to a full out battle if the child in the redhead's arms hadn't shivered and whimpered under the pressure. The eyes of both men swivelled to the infant. In less than a second, all their rage, their fears and their pains were thrown out the metaphorical window as their whole world shrank and became concern for the small boy. Said child was squirming in the arms of his great-grandfather while soft whines of pain escaped his lips and a river of tears flowed down his cheeks from his now painfully tight shut eyes.
With a heavy sigh of weariness Vincent let go of all the rage that had built up in his chest as a result of his confrontation with Sirius. He then allowed the dull aches of his body and his worry for the child to override all other feelings. Muttering sweet nothings to the infant, he bounced him carefully in his arms, making hushing sounds and trying to soothe the baby into slumber. At the same time, he slumped tiredly against the tree trunk behind him once again and, foregoing his already forgotten grace, he slumped defeated to the ground, his image that of a heap of tattered clothes and beaten limbs.
Meanwhile, Sirius stood in startled silence throughout the quiet display of weakness that he had not thought possible from the man before him.
He had known Vincent for the best part of five years. During that time the redhead had wormed his way into James', Lily's and his own heart since the very first night they met him. With open trust, he had asked them to help him search for his granddaughter whom he had unwittingly found and who had been standing right in front of him. They had complied, compelled by his sincere voice and his eyes that, although not outright pleading, conveyed openly the man's emotions and his desire, his need to find his granddaughter. More than once, he had wondered why and how someone so young could be searching for his granddaughter, of all things. But once they unravelled the vague clues from scrying attempts, bloodline parchments and many other instruments, and they found that the missing girl was actually Lily, the young man of sincere but unsettling red eyes had reserved no secrets to them.
It had been another night, not two months after the first one. The four of them had gathered around the kitchen table of the young Potter couple with a coffee set and some biscuits to fill whatever silence that could arise. With a filled cup in his hands that remained untouched the whole night, Vincent launched into a detail explanation of his origins. He was a vampire of an ancient House, that is, one of the nations of vampires, and was an ancient himself, over two thousand years old. Early in his life he had fallen for a woman who he had loved dearly and who had loved him deeply, but had refused to give up mortality. This relationship had resulted in many offspring, and thus in a line of part-human and part-vampires that with time had continued to marry humans and had lost all vampire traits. Many of these lines had died away with time, but those that remained he had kept track of, compelled to see to their wellbeing by his vampiric nature, that tied him irrevocably to his family. This had lead him from his actual home in Spain to Britain and then to the Potters in search for Lily. His open, sincere eyes, coupled up with all the tests that undoubtedly signalled Lily as the deceptively young looking man's relative, pushed down any doubts of his intentions and they readily admitted him into their lives. Soon, Remus and Peter were both introduced to the charming man, and though there were some rough edges between the werewolf and the vampire, he, in Remus' words, became part of the pack. He had accepted their involvement in the war with a resigned sigh, a tight smile and the deep comprehension that only experience could give and that he had plenty of. He had gone out of his way to help them. He'd fought alongside them, killed for them and saved their lives innumerable times, but he never allowed them to feel indebted –family was supposed to watch over family, and anyways, they had saved his life just as many times, he would said.
Never since that cold February night nearly five years ago had he seen the vampire so defeated, looking so tired and lost. He had always been a pillar, a firm and strong foundation to hold their group upright even in the face of the worst of what that war had to offer: the countless corpses, the tortured screams, the bleeding comrades and the lost friends. He was a source of tranquillity, of balance, giving his unconditional support whenever it was needed. He was ever present as a shoulder to cry or rest on, or as the voice of reason, giving counsel and mute support just at the right moment. But Sirius could see now that this strong man was still a man, vampire or not, and was not immune to the pains and sufferings that afflicted others. A deep sigh slowly passed his lips allowing him to gather himself, push down his fear of the man's power, his fervent desire for revenge and his own pain and grief before he walked up to the vampire and lowered himself next to him, resting a comforting hand over his shoulders. He then followed the redhead's example and sat against the ancient tree, crossed his legs, draped one arm around the vampire's shoulders and fixed his own tired gaze on the toddler. Soon the quiet sobs and whimpers of the wounded child faded into silence as he was once again swept into the sweet realm of Morpheus. The silence stretched for long minutes between the two adults, accentuated by the eerie stillness of the forest around them, for all animal life had scattered away, escaping from the fire, the ominous feeling of death and the oppressing sorrow of both men.
"What would you have me do?" he finally asked, his voice soft and his eyes still fixed on his godson.
"Come with me," was the simple answer that the vampire gave him, delivered in the same muted tones. This was followed by another, shorter moment of silence as Sirius contemplated the words.
"What about Pettigrew?" he inquired quietly.
"We can deal with him latter, I'm sure." This time the vampire tore his gaze from the child to give the young man a tired smile.
"I'm sure you can take care of Harry on your own..." began Sirius, clearly searching for an explanation for Vincent's adamant insistence than he accompanied the vampire.
"I cannot lawfully, by vampire law, take Harry under my wing if there is someone else entitled to his Guardianship, and you are," answered the redhead, easily reading his question.
"What about Lily's sister?"
"As she is my descendant, whether Harry stays with his aunt or I is my decision entirely."
"Family matters stay inside the family..." Sirius voice was so quietly it was but a breath. The end of his sentence twisted his inflexion into a question that Vincent answered with a nod and a hum of confirmation. After a pause, Sirius asked, "But where would we go? I probably am a wanted man, after all."
This time the smile that the vampire offered him was stronger and it gave his eyes a malicious glint. "Why Sirius, isn't it obvious? My home in Japan."
A/N: That'd be the first chapter... I intended it to finish this differently, but stories usually have a will of their own. Before anyone comments on it and gets any ideas, Vincent is NOT the OC that will end up with Sirius. His relationship with him is of an entirely different nature that you will see in the next chapter.
With that said, thank you for reading, and please, if you will, review. Those little things do wonders to the muse.